


Too Many Candles

by returntosaturn



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: 80s prom, Anniversary, David's birthday, Fluff, M/M, Patrick is a dork, Sixteen Candles AU, Stevie/Twyla implied, Twyla throws another party, but a cute dork, set somewhere between Singles Week and The Plant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:20:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23632996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/returntosaturn/pseuds/returntosaturn
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 20
Kudos: 132
Collections: Reel Schitt's Creek Prompt Fest





	Too Many Candles

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Reel_Schitts_Creek](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Reel_Schitts_Creek) collection. 



An accounting conference in the middle of summer is the first affront the universe throws. Who did that? And who insisted upon the importance of attending, because apparently there’s some vital information at this one Patrick can’t get anywhere else. 

“It's only three days, David. And I’ll be back the day before our anniversary, and then we’ll have the whole weekend.” Patrick shifts his duffle bag on his shoulder after fishing his boarding pass from the front pocket, because not only was this conference ill timed, it’s also far enough away that it requires a flight.

_ Our anniversary. _

This was supremely unfair, that Patrick use such language in regards to this particular day, when he was about to leave him for the days leading up to it.

At least he refrained from calling it a birthaversary or something equally as offensive and hashtagable.

But he’s trying to be positive, and he’s thankful. Patrick is a steadfast partner in so many ways, and that includes all of the things he handles, all of the things he brings to the table for their business. The things he cares about and is more astute at than David himself, and that’s why there’s sometimes stupid accounting conferences that take him away for a few days. 

The foreboding buzz of ancient plane engines and the sluggish, tired sounds of the Elmdale Regional Airport surround them. It's hardly  _ The Propo _ sal _ ,  _ but David gives him a big hug anyways, kisses his cheek before Patrick turns his head to find his lips.

“I know,” David says. “Just a few days and then we’ll head off to that cute bed and breakfast and have Menonite butter and biscuits and… sully that poor, unsuspecting handmade wedding ring quilt.”

Patrick’s ears go pink, and that’s all he really needs to see.

He waves goodbye, leaned up against the side of the Lincoln. Patrick waves back.

He drives home alone, down the back roads with Brittney playing over the tinny speakers. By the time he gets to the motel, he’s made the decision to stop being depressed about it. 

Alexis is home, all smiles with a new issue of  _ Us Weekly.  _ They convene on her bed to scoff at all the fake stories, and that really helps. 

-

He’s locking up on Thursday when his phone rings.

He curses, halfway through the routine of pulling the door closed the extra two centimeters it needs to properly align with the lock, fumbles his keys, reaches into his pocket.

He smiles at the screen, sweeps a hand over his brow. Fucking summer.

“Hi honey,” he chirps.

“Hey.” Patrick says, and David can instantly tell there’s something off. “How was your day?”

“Um. It was fine. We sold three of the bigger sizes of the new exfoliators. And a whole case of wine!”

“Wow. Great day.”

“I put the sales total in the little cell on the spreadsheet just like you showed me. Although I don’t really see why we have to do that? The POS runs those reports for us.”

“It's just a backup, for my own records.” 

David hums, hoping he can lighten up whatever it is that’s got Patrick in a mood. “So thorough.”

“I try. Hey listen…”

David stops at the corner at the stop sign, but not to wait for cars to pass. The street’s virtually empty as usual.

“I’m...I’m not gonna make it back Friday. There’s a lot of rain down here right now, and they’ve delayed my flight. Turns out there isn’t exactly a flexible timetable for Elmdale Regional. I don’t think I’ll be able to get on a flight til Saturday.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry, honey. I wanted this weekend to be special. It's important to us. I shouldn’t have gone this far on  _ this  _ weekend, that was…”

“It's ok,” David says, high in his throat, crosses the street. “I mean… it's…”

He stops his thoughts from spiraling, stops them right there, because no this isn’t  _ that.  _

“I mean I’m sad but it's… fine.”

“I’m gonna make it up to us. I’ll keep you posted if I can get out of here sooner.”

“Ok.” He breathes, because this is an entirely new complex he can’t deal with right now.

His birthday has always been an uncomfortable time in the first place. Sometimes he had people to celebrate with, sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he didn’t want to be around the people he had to celebrate with and did it anyways. Now that it's finally become something he’s ok with, nay looking forward to, it's fucked again.

He sighs despite himself. 

“Love you,” he says, and that helps a little.

“Love you too. I’ll text you before bed.”

“Ok. Bye.”

“Bye.”

-

He wakes up on his birthaversary with puffy under eyes and one gray eyebrow hair.

He’s in the bathroom for twenty minutes, tweezers in hand before he works up the nerve to pluck it out.

He’s hardly out when Alexis breezes past him.

“Um. Good morning,” he says, hands fluttering around his own self, hoping to jog her tiny memory.

She shakes her head, bugs her eyes. “Good morning.”

He glares. “Ugh.”

“Ugh!”

She slams the door.

His mother opens the door adjoining their rooms when he’s at the mirror, observing his outfit.

“Good morning, dear,” she says, bright and chipper.

“Hi.” He smiles, turns towards her hopefully, and God is he fucking five?

“I believe I let you borrow a necklace last week.” She says abruptly. “I’m hoping you’re ready to return it.”

He gapes. Snaps his mouth closed. “Um. Yep. No problem.  _ At. All _ .”

He passes, goes to the nightstand and fishes out the necklace, a cascade of thin silver chains that went very well with his most recent eBay find.

“Ah! David!”

He looks up at her after carefully draping the necklace over her outstretched hand. 

“I had hoped you would treat my things with more care than that!” she exclaims, grimacing. “She’ll tarnish in that horrible, dank space, and then where would we be?!”

He shakes his head, mouth opening and closing. “I… I can’t….Oh my god…”

He presses his hands to his temples, nudges past her to the coffee machine already gurgling in the other room.

“Good morning David,” his father says, bringing down two mugs from the shelf.

“Hi,” he says dejectedly, giving up all hope.

“Aren’t you going to the store today?”

“No, it's my day off.” He drops into a chair.

He’d texted Patrick late last night to confirm that he’d still take the day off. They were meant to be on their way to the Rempel family’s farm today after all. 

Patrick’s text back of— _ Of course. You should make it a good day _ —had put him into tears. 

“Why’s that? It is a business day, isn’t it?” He glances down at his wife, who’s currently stuffing her purse with pill packets from the bowl at the center of the table, as if she can provide confirmation.

David throws his hands out, glances around the room wildly.

His dad’s already turned away to pour his coffee. 

He points manically at himself, waves his hands.

No one even looks up. 

He groans.

“David! Honestly, must we be subject to your histrionics at this hour?!”

“It’s ten a.m.!” He bursts.

Moira gasps suddenly, snaps her chin up. “Jonathan! We forgot!”

David feels strangely nauseous. His dad turns, lips pursed, eyebrows up, blowing his coffee.

“What’s that, sweetheart?”

“We had brunch plans this morning! With Roland and Jocelyn!”

“Oh. We did, didn’t we? Now we’ll be the late ones and we’ll never hear the end of it!” Johnny sets his full coffee cup down on the table.

David gapes. “You’d go to brunch. With the Schitts?! Over having a morning in… with your own children?!”

“Oh, dear, you’re practically middle aged!”

David flinches, stunned. No. No thank you. Not today.

“You can forage on your own, I hope I’ve instilled you with at least that much self-reliance!” She stands from the table.

David follows suit, if only from the shock.

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me today?”

Moira frowns. “What else do you expect me to say, dear? Now we must be off. Have fun.”

He accepts her kisses on each of his cheeks, horrified and stunned.

She follows his father out the door, a flash of the oversized silver zippers on her Hermes handbag, and they’re gone.

He glances around the empty room.

“I can’t believe it,” he says out loud to the offensive wood paneling. “They fucking forgot my birthday. Again.”

-

_ [Come to the office.] _

He cracks one eye open to read Stevie’s text before slapping his phone back down on the nightstand. Thirty seconds later, it buzzes again.

He groans, reaches blindly for it.

_ [ _ **_Stevie:_ ** _ Don’t ignore me.] _

_ [ _ **_David:_ ** _ What if I’m busy?] _

_ [ _ **_Stevie:_ ** _ You’re not. You’re moping. Get up.] _

He huffs, overloud and cathartic in the half-dark of the room, swings his feet over the edge of the bed to shove on his sneakers. 

Stevie’s at the desk with two cups of coffee from the cafe.

He takes his, leans his elbows on the counter. “Where’s the weed?”

“I’m working on it.”

He takes a sip, sighs.

“You could say something to them,” she suggests, reading his thoughts.

“I wouldn’t stoop to remind them,” he grumps.

“Well if it's any consolation, which I know it probably isn’t… Twyla is throwing a party at the cafe after closing tonight. We should go.”

He grimaces. “You said you were working on…”

“And I am. And we can. And then we can go to the party. You don’t have anything better to do.”

“You underestimate the power of crying over a delivery pizza. Very healing.”

“Well the only way you’re…” She pinches her thumb and forefinger together, mimes smoking. “Is if you come to my place before, and the party is eighties prom themed, so dress appropriately.”

He reels back a little, blinks. “Eighties prom? Wow. Weighted against a pizza in my room. This  _ is _ a tough choice.”

“Be at my place at seven.”

“Byeee.” He turns for the door, taking his coffee with him.

-

Alexis comes home around lunch time and heads straight for her closet.

“What are you doing?” he mumbles from his bed. The lights are on now. He’s found the tail end of  _ You’ve Got Mail  _ on some cable channel, and he’s still nursing his coffee. Twyla only forgot the cocoa powder this time, so the day is looking up about five point six percent.

“Oh. Ted invited me to this cute little prom party at the cafe tonight. I need to find an eighties, Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, Brooke Shields situation.”

“K, you will never be Brooke Shields, and honestly why are you even going? Has everyone forgotten the murder mystery fiasco?”

“Um I wasn’t roped into that. You were, because Mom forced you to and you were sad. And Ted and I are like… really really great right now.” She beams, flutters her lashes wistfully. “This is a super cute look for us.”

He sits up abruptly, sneers at her. “Wow. Good for you. Super good for you. So happy for you both.”

“David you’re being an angry old man and I really don’t have time for this. Are you going to help me pick out a skirt or not?”

He shoots out of bed lightning fast, hardly has time to return her irritated groan before he slams the door and stomps down the ugly, broken cement walkway to The Love Room.

He throws open the closet and plunges his hands inside, closes his eyes and just breathes a minute, holding tight to anything leather or silk or cashmere and its calming, if only for the moment.

He opens his eyes, thumbs through the line of hangers, exhales steadily.

There’s nothing in here for an eighties prom, but theme parties are ludicrous anyways.

-

He’s alone at the motel for the rest of the afternoon. Alexis’s bed is swathed in sequins and chiffon, discarded pieces from her earlier rampage. The black garment bag from his secret closet hangs on the bathroom door, a looming reminder that he’ll be stuck here all night if he doesn’t go, and all implications of delivery pizza aside, that’s just pitiful.

This is a special day. It should’ve been. They’ll still celebrate, even if it's a bit belated, once Patrick is back in town.

It's just annoying.

He unlocks his phone, finds Patrick’s number at the top of his recents, taps it. 

It goes straight to voicemail.

_ Hi you’ve reached Patrick Brewer. I can’t get to the phone right now, so please leave a message and I’ll return your call as soon as I can. If you’re calling on business pertaining to Rose Apothecary, please call… _

He huffs, irritated at this perfectly polite, endearing little missive he hardly ever gets to hear.

_...and we’ll be happy to assist you. Thanks, and have a great day. _

“Hi. It's me. Um. I was hoping you had an update on the plane situation but… Um. So, they forgot again.” His voice gets harried against his best efforts. He waves a hand at the empty air. “So um. I’m going to this stupid prom party thing at the cafe with Stevie. Call me when you can. Um.”

He takes a deep breath. 

“Love you.”

-

Stevie answers the door in lavender monstrosity with a neckline at her collarbones, puffed sleeves and lace everywhere. The only prepossessing feature this look has is the tea length and the matching heels that show off her legs.

“Oh. Wow. Look at you,” he says dryly. “You look like…” He swallows, twists the words into something nice. “Cotton candy.”

“You know I only have three dreses. One is sexy, one is hideously girly, and this one, which my mom wore to her own prom.”

“Wow. Well, you look very beautiful.”

“Why aren’t you dressed?”

He holds up his garment bag. “If we’re smoking beforehand, I’m not ruining my suit.”

“Have a seat, my friend,” she says, and he has the presence of mind to hang the bag from her bathroom door before he’s on the couch.

-

Half an hour later, sufficiently giggly and languid, they prep for the party. David reveals his outfit and gets half the reaction he really wants.

It's Alexander McQueen. A white suit with big, black statement florals imprinted into the silk. It isn't the 80s, but it makes him feel lighter, and that’s the healing power of fashion. He knows now to recognize that this feeling is temporary, but it’ll get him through the night. That and the weed.

-

They walk to the cafe, arm in arm. They don’t match at all and the two of them together must look hideous. He can hear the rhythm of synth drums all the way down the block. Multicolored lights dance through the windows and into the quiet street, and the place looks packed. 

Inside, the ceiling is strung with holographic tinsel, little foil stars, and more than one disco ball. The tables have been cleared, and there’s a long snack table at the end of the room. Twyla’s outdone herself, David thinks on the bright side. They head straight for the bar and stake their claim.

“Wow,” Stevie says, sipping her rum and coke, watching Dane, who’s successfully cleared the dancefloor, break dancing to Elton’s  _ I’m Still Standing.  _ “This may be better than our actual prom.”

“Oh. Fuck. You went to actual prom?”

“Yup.” Stevie nods. “First date with a girl, actually.”

“What?” He smiles, full out. “You never told me this!”

“Turns out she mistook me for Stephen Budge. He moved away three years earlier.”

“Oh. Ew. Unfortunate.”

“Yup.”

They slip into silence for a minute or two.

“Twyla is pretty. I mean…” She pretends to choke on her drink. Maybe actually does. “Pretty… authentic… to the time period.”

“Oh?” He says with a sly grin, looking down at her, catching her panicked face and then Twyla’s there, in a strapless number that’s era appropriate and actually is really cute. Black with a white underskirt, hi-lo hemline and sweetheart neckline. Her hair is a blown nest of teased curls, pinned back from her face with a rhinestone barrette. It's an unfortunate pairing of taffeta and satin, but the silhouette really does suit her.

“Hi guys! Glad you came!” she says cheerily.

“Hi,” Stevie croaks.

“You look nice, Twy,” he says, and means it, but throws a smile over his shoulder anyways, just to tease.

“Oh, thanks, David. So do you. I love your suit.”

“It's Alexander McQueen.”

“Oh.” Twyla smiles, supportive if clueless. “I got mine at the Rusty Zipper in Elm Grove.”

“Mm.” David nods. “Mm-hmm.” 

“Well.” She gives a light-hearted shrug. “Have fun, guys. There’s refreshments over there.” She points. “I made pimento cheese pinwheels.”

“Yummmm.” David tries for genuine and fails.

She wiggles her fingers and is gone. David turns back to the bar and lets out a fake sob.

“This sucks,” he whines.

“Yep. Fucking sucks you’ve got a friend who scored weed for you, brought you coffee, put on makeup, to take you out so you wouldn’t have to spend a second forgotten birthday-slash-anniversary alone, face down in a large supreme, no peppers.”

He sighs, swirls his drink.

“Have you heard from Patrick yet?”

“No. And now I’m getting worried. He said there were no flights til late tonight but he hasn’t called or texted since he let me know he was delayed.”

He pats his pockets. “Oh fuck. I forgot my phone at your place. Now I’ll never know if he’s ever coming back.”

“Ok, that’s a bit much.”

He glares, but she’s already gazing across the dance floor again, where Twyla’s rhinestone barrette is catching the colors off the disco ball.

“Why don’t you just ask her to dance and I’ll just… go. It's not a big deal. Really. I appreciate you trying to…”

But Stevie grabs his hand and tugs. As if it's been cued up,  _ I’ve Had The Time of My Life  _ chimes through the speakers.

“Maybe I will ask her. Later. But we should dance first.”

“You’re so horrible,” he protests, abandoning his drink as he’s pulled, as he takes both her hands in his.

“I know. You’ll get over it.”

-

Ok. He’s laughing. He’s having fun. It’s only because of Stevie. And weed. And the drain cleaner martini he’s currently drinking.

_ Time After Time  _ starts slow and smooth through the speakers when they’re back at the bar.

Stevie’s looking down at her phone. 

“Telephone for David Rose,” she says, and passes the phone to him.

There’s a text from Patrick, there in green on the screen.

_ I’ve been trying to get in touch with David, but maybe his phone’s dead? It keeps going to voicemail. He told me you guys were going to a party at the cafe? I made it home and there’s a surprise at Ray’s house for him. Could you tell him for me? Maybe send him this way? _

David clutches the phone a little tighter than necessary. 

He beams. It’s the dancing. And the martini.

“I’m gonna…” he starts, passing the phone back into Stevie’s extended palm.

“Mhm,” she says.

“Yep. I’m just gonna. Go?”

She nods. “You should.”

“Thanks. For…” He waves a hand around the room, pauses to look at her one last time, sets his teeth. 

“Happy birthday, David. Happy  _ anniversary _ .”

He’s only just learned this was a thing people say to each other, after being prompted to say it to his own parents. It’s unexpected and new. Hearing it for himself sends an excited tickle up his spine.

“Thank you. And goodnight.” He throws back the rest of his drink. “Text me later about the…” He juts his chin towards where Twyla’s standing by the snack table, chatting with her guests.

“I don’t kiss and tell,” Stevie says.

David smirks. “Um. Yes you do.”

She grins right back. “You’re right, I do.” 

He grabs her hand, gives it a squeeze, and then he’s out. 

The night’s a little cooler, crisper, and maybe he checks the fact that he’s walking four blocks with no cell phone in the dark of night, but he’s already halfway across the street when he glances back to the cafe. He sees Stevie and Twyla standing together. Twyla’s laughing at something, then she nods. He turns, and is on his way. 

-

Ray’s windows are dark but Patrick’s ugly car is in the driveway. David stands in front of the house, in the middle of the empty street for a moment, contemplating. He starts up the driveway, leather soles clicking along the concrete.

He knocks once. There’s no answer. No movement in the house. 

The door’s unlocked so he lets it swing wide. 

“Patrick?” He calls inside. “Are you…?”

_ Alive?  _ He mentally checks for his phone, runs through the steps for making an emergency dial, if needed.

Oh fuck, right. He doesn’t have his phone. 

He puts one foot over the threshold.

“Hellooooo?”

“In the dining room!” Patirck’s voice calls through the dark house. 

He has to pick his way over photography equipment, past cactuses and Ray’s scaled replica of Michaelangelo’s  _ David.  _

He bumps the carousel of pamphlets and sends a stack flying.

“Oh fuck!”

“You ok?”

“Yeah I’m just traversing this… desert of kitsch over here. Be there in a minute.”

He can see a soft light around the corner, and when he finally reaches the entrance to the dining room, his heart nudges up to his throat.

Patrick’s there, sitting cross-legged on top of the big dining room table that’s usually crowded with paperwork and a gaudy gold-plated centerpiece, now replaced with a two-tiered cake, birthday candles flickering blithely.

He gasps a little, tries to swallow it back, presses his lips together to combat his smile, the thickness in his throat.

Patrick’s wearing green, a nice green button down, a matching sweater vest pulled over it and fuck its too adorable.

“Hi,” he breathes.

Patrick just smiles. “Hi.”

He twists his fingers together. “You look  _ very _ cute.”

Patrick looks him up and down, not bothering to be discreet. “You look very handsome.”

“It’s Alexander McQueen.”

Patrick smiles, endeared, but otherwise unaffected. “Ok.”

David beams. God, he’s so in love.

“So.” He dips his knees a little, overcome and enraptured by all this. Just for him. “What’s this for?” He eyes the cake at the center of the table, candles flickering, lighting Patrick in a way that brings out his faint little eyelashes.

“Sit,” Patrick says, gestures to the other end of the table. 

“Um.  _ Is  _ that a good idea, do you think?”

Patrick reaches down, raps his knuckles against the tabletop twice.

“Solid wood, David.”

And he can’t help himself, he closes his eyes, tips his head back and lets out a laugh because this is all so sweet and there’s absolutely a joke in there somewhere. 

He rounds the table and steps up on one of the dining chairs so that his transfer to the table might be at least a little bit graceful. He sits cross legged—he hasn’t sat cross legged since middle school—mirroring Patrick. He smooths out his jacket, clears his throat. 

Patrick’s stunning, in his sweet little sweater vest and his happy smile, candlelight in his eyes, and David has to do  _ something  _ to keep from openly weeping. 

“So in the case that this table does break under the weight of two fully grown adult men, um, did you pay like a safety deposit or…?”

“Happy birthday David,” Patrick interrupts.

“Happy  _ anniversary _ ,” he amends, practically voiceless, and saying it to someone else is even better than having it said to him.

Patrick is quiet for a minute, all soft eyes and ever-present smile. “I wish I could’ve taken you to prom.”

“Kay.” David looks up, squeezes his eyes shut, because the barrage of sweet things apparently has no sign of stopping.

“But since I was late, I figured I could still make the night special for you. Finish out the trope.”

“There’s no prom in this movie, you’re getting it confused with  _ Pretty in Pink. _ ”

Patrick ducks his chin and huffs a laugh. “I’m sorry. Our marathon of John Hughes’ films was a little fast and furious.”

“That’s ok. I’m still…” David shakes his head, lets the flutter in his stomach rush up and out of him. “Suitably charmed.”

Patrick glances down at the flickering candles.

“Make a wish, David.”

David presses his lips together against a smile, because he wants to say it. Wants to play out this scene just as it was, make it all just as tender and cloying as it is, but Patrick’s made this. It’s their moment, and David wants to mark it as such. 

He leans in. Patrick leans forward. Mindful of the glow between them, they kiss. 


End file.
